Of coming grief, its own distress
Foreboding. So the sailor fears
The raging tempest's near approach,
When tranquil waters heave and swell,960
Without a breath of wind. Thou fool,
What grief, what rising storm of fate
Dost thou imagine nigh? Nay, nay,
Believe thy brother; for thy fear—
'Tis groundless, whatsoe'er it be,
Or thou dost fear too late. Ah me,